11.14.17

It is doom for the man
who spills his money
like blood and wrangles about him a
tightening circumference of women
whose incisors glisten
at the prospect of soft flesh.
It is doom,
unless he should break the anguish
that towers in his chest
and rise again like the messiah,
or a turd you thought you flushed,
plop, plopping back up to the surface
only to be flushed again once more.

Written at 11:40 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.